


Taking Root

by FelicityGS



Series: A Thing With No Name [2]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fist Fights, M/M, POV Second Person, Slurs, Underage Smoking, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 01:32:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12158871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelicityGS/pseuds/FelicityGS
Summary: All you know about him is his name and that he’s been bringing you assignments you are missing because you’ve been suspended for the past week. He’s huge, with ears that stick out too far, and hair a mess he doesn’t even try to tame. You’d as soon forget him when you return to school and his use to you has ended. You will.





	Taking Root

**Author's Note:**

> This is how Hux and Kylo met, hinted at in [Meetings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8736364). While I gave it a few tries in 3rd person, it just felt off and didn't capture the _feel_ of the violence or what drives Hux. 
> 
> Hopefully this is what people were hoping for ages ago, when I mentioned perhaps continuing this one day. I might add to it, but for now I think this verse is done. I have other stories I need to finish sometime this year.

All you know about him is his name and that he’s been bringing you assignments you are missing because you’ve been suspended for the past week. He’s huge, with ears that stick out too far, and hair a mess he doesn’t even try to tame. You’d as soon forget him when you return to school and his use to you has ended. You will.

When you go back, the friends of the boy who called you a fag--the one whose teeth you tore your knuckles on--try to jump you. You’re back behind the bleachers, you just want a smoke--not to deal with this _nonsense_. That fury is what propels you to your feet, teeth bared. You are outnumbered; you will lose. But you won’t walk away.

You can’t.

Someone has grabbed your hair; instinct has your teeth sinking into flesh, the taste of blood in your mouth. You feel your knuckles split open again as your fist connects with bone, feel your hair tearing at the roots. You can’t see, but you can hear. A part of you thrills at the pain you hear in a shout you can’t make out.

You are dropped; you don’t wait to find out why, just throw yourself back at the first blurry shape you make out, bowling them over in the process. Your fist connects with bone; your knuckles split open again. There is a grin pulling your lips wide as you get ready to throw another hit.

It isn’t until later, when they have broken and stumbled away, pulling you off their friend only long enough to get away, you realize you didn't win because of desire, but because you had help. You stare at Ben for a few long minutes, one eye too swollen to open, before the adrenaline wears off and you drop to ground the ground.

He watches as you pat your pockets for another cigarette, then a lighter. You aren’t sure what the look on his face is, but he helped you. He has blood on his lip.

You offer him a cigarette. He doesn’t take it right away, and you’re not sure what to make of his expression. Your arm is tired; you move to put the cigarette back in the pack and he lurches forward, gangly uncontrolled limbs, and takes it.

Maybe the expression is awe. You’ve seen it before, sometimes even directed at you, but it feels wrong. He’s still staring at your face, ignoring the cigarette you gave him, ignoring your offer of a lighter. You light your cigarette and shove it back in a pocket and drag deep. You watch him, more discreetly than his open stare. You can’t get a good read on him — what he’s thinking, what he might do next. Why he helped you at all. He holds the cigarette awkwardly, but he’s so still--no twitch of muscle to give you any clue.

You pull the cigarette away, blow out. You open your mouth to mock his unsubtleness--

he kisses you; your lip stings at the pressure. You are not sure whose blood you can taste. You are not sure why he did it at all; before you can push him away, he has pulled back.

“I love you,” he blurts.

You throw your head back and laugh. You end up coughing, the movement making your ribs remind you you are not yet above your own physicality. When you wheeze to a stop, he is still looking at you--not hurt, you think, but then you clearly have no idea what he’s been thinking all along anyway.

“Is that so?” you ask as you take another drag.

“Yes,” he says, just as fervent and forceful and _sincere_ as his confession. It is not awe on his face; it is adoration.

You have no idea what to do with it, but you’re sure you can come up with something. You consider him--his size, his readiness to aid, his surety.

“I see.”

A tentative twitch of lips, something not unlike hope on his face. He finally looks away from you and to the cigarette, still unlit, in his hand.

“I don’t smoke,” he says, baffled.

You laugh again, and this time even the pain can’t halt your mirth. You don’t remember the last time you laughed so easily, and when you can finally bring yourself to stop, you can’t help noticing his uncertain smile, his continued bafflement.

Yes, you are quite certain you can find a use for him.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks [Verbyna](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna/works) for the read-through prior.


End file.
